


Something of Mine

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Brat Tamer [11]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies, Background Reed900 - Freeform, Blow Jobs, Bottom Connor, Competence Kink, Competent Professor Connor, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Connor's bright red speedo gets a tag, Dom Hank Anderson, Dom/sub, Doubt, Emotional Sex, Hand Jobs, Hank Anderson Has Gigantic Hands, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Hank Anderson is a Feelings Weenie, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Miscommunication, Playful Sex, Protective Siblings, Sharing Clothes, Top Hank Anderson, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name, Vacation, Wining and Dining, leave me alone I don't know how to tag that, one hand two dicks, playful scene, relationship milestones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 10:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: This is part of an ongoing D/s series. Heed the tags.Part 11.--Anderson takes Connor on a vacation and has a massive internal panic attack about the implications. Miscommunication and hurt feelings abound, but they find their way in the end <3





	Something of Mine

Anderson had been quietly pleased when Connor told him he’d be staying for the entirety of the spring semester. Usually, Connor had to split his time between his home office in Texas and the student labs in Detroit.

He’s doubly pleased the first time he witnesses Connor run an entire lecture and lab on his own. In the past, Connor had deferred to Anderson since he wasn’t a constant presence. Now, Anderson wonders if he shouldn’t have let Connor lead labs sooner.

While he’s a great deal friendlier than Anderson is, he is no less demanding. He doesn’t reduce his students to tears with stern words, but he’s perfected his expression of Deep Disappointment. No one wants to be on its receiving end.

“Paula,” recognizing Connor’s tone, Anderson looks up from his desk to watch.

“P-Professor?” Paula squeaks out Connor’s title on a stutter and Anderson shook his head. Paula wasn’t cut out for this line of work, but Connor had been trying to convince him of her potential.

“Is there a reason you connected the core device interface module into the audio output?” He wasn’t being sarcastic, Anderson had taken a long time to realize this. He genuinely wanted to know his students’ thought processes.

“I…I. That is…um…” Connor lets the girl _um_ and _uh_ her way through another sentence and Anderson twitches the longer it went on.

He’s about to intervene and boot the girl from the lab when Connor murmurs the words none of his students wants to hear, “See me after class.”

_Oh, shit_ Anderson thinks to himself, discreetly watching the exchange.

Connor and Anderson split the office whenever Connor was in Detroit. It wasn’t an issue when Connor came and went frequently. Now that he’s here for an entire semester with students of his own, Anderson has to hover outside his own office if Connor called in a student.

Connor spoke softly, but Anderson was near enough to the door to catch most of his words.

“I’m _sorry_,” Paula all but wails. It’s a tired tactic—crying to garner sympathy—and Anderson’s pleased to hear Connor isn’t moved by it.

“You don’t need to be sorry. You need to be more attentive. You have a gift, Paula, but you need to work at it. Raw talent isn’t enough to succeed in my classroom or in an actual lab.” Connor’s tone is polite but firm.

Paula mumbles something indistinct, something Anderson can’t stand. Connor’s response tells him he doesn’t care for her answer, “You have two options, Paula. You can either stay late and finish the project or you can drop my class.”

Anderson’s eyebrows raise in surprise at that. Connor _really_ hadn’t liked whatever Paula had said to him.

“B-But…my dinner…” she fades off without finishing the sentence and Anderson can hear Connor’s chair scrape as he stands. The girl remains frozen in her seat.

“You’re a grown adult, Paula. If you can’t explain to your mother why you have to miss _one_ of your _biweekly_ dinners then I have deep concerns about your priorities. Do the work or leave my lab; it’s your choice.”

Connor must have motioned for her to leave because the door comes flying open shortly afterward, the girl storming away in high dudgeon. Anderson’s surprised to see her wrench open the lab door at the end of the hall then slam it closed.

He walks in to see Connor calmly arranging their desk and putting away papers. A warm burst of fondness coats his chest at the sight. Connor could be a bit of a slob, but he knew Anderson liked to keep his workspace orderly and neat.

“Well,” he purrs into the space between them, “that was quite the conversation.”

Connor makes a dismissive gesture, “You just have to know what makes them tick.”

“Being an asshole?” Anderson asks, amused.

Connor wrinkles his nose, “I wasn’t being an asshole. I also wasn’t giving her any wiggle room. That girl has been catered to her entire life. She’s never had the bar set higher than her knee caps because she’s naturally gifted. So I questioned it and set her a challenge.”

Anderson makes a non-committal noise. Maybe it’s because Connor is younger that he has the energy for this kind of psychoanalysis of his students. Or, maybe, Connor’s a better professor. Anderson frowns at himself; self-doubt isn’t a personal character trait that sits well on him.

“Stop that,” Connor says quietly, rising to run his fingers over the worry lines between Anderson’s eyebrows. Anderson captures the hand in his own and presses a kiss to Connor’s fingertips. Connor colors hotly at the unusual display of affection while at work.

“In my own head,” he grumbles in answer. Connor smiles at him, warm and soft. Why he wants to look at Anderson like that is beyond him, but he isn’t about to stop him either.

“You spend _a lot_ of time there,” Connor says through a soft chuckle. Anderson makes a sound of acknowledgment and Connor sighs into his frame, “Take me home.”

It’s easy to give into the request. Anderson has papers to grade, but they can wait. Sometimes, it’s worth putting off work in favor of their increasingly rare quality time. It’s something he’s learned from Connor, not that he’s ever admitted that out loud.

He can feel Connor’s eyes on him as he pushes vegetables around in a pan. Connor had made an offhand comment about Anderson’s cooking abilities or lack thereof and he’d since been determined to show the brat he was more than capable.

He’d burned two omelets while Connor slept on the morning of the first attempt, but what Connor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“You were a terror in the classroom today,” he comments casually, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. Connor loves touching his hair; Anderson loves drawing his attention to it.

As expected, slim hands sneak around his comfortable waist and Connor noses into the loose strands from behind.

“I learned from the best,” he murmurs in response.

It’s a simple conversation and a relatively normal evening, but Anderson can sense his hands attempting to shake. He throws in a pinch of whatever jar he’d labeled as “Pretty Decent” to distract himself.

“I was thinking,” he begins, waiting for Connor to respond. When Anderson hears him hum in answer, he turns down the heat on the stove. This might take longer than anticipated.

“We need a legitimate vacation.”

Connor laughs mostly because he knows it’s true and it’s easier to laugh than mope about his woefully limited vacation hours. As recent fulltime faculty, he didn’t have nearly the amount of leave banked that Anderson did.

“Not much we can do around here on a weekend,” he replies, but his tone is intrigued. “What did you have in mind?”

***

“You’re doing what?” Niles askes, perplexed.

“I’m going on vacation with Hank. To the _beach_.” He emphasizes the word in case Niles somehow overlooked this fact.

“With your colleague?” Connor can hear the thinly concealed question and levels an even gaze at his brother.

“I didn’t think I had to spell it out for you.”

Niles folds his arms, “I would’ve liked more of an explanation than suspicious bruises.” Connor’s heart thuds in panic at the implication. He’d tugged harder than usual on the restraints the night before and his wrists bore questionable markings. He’s on the verge of defending Anderson when he notices Niles tapping at his neck.

“Oh,” he says, quietly releasing tension. “Well, yes. We’re together.” He adjusts his tie to better conceal the hickey there.

“Does mother know?”

Connor snorts, not answering the question.

“Right.” Niles draws the word out like a judgment.

His brother starts folding socks and Connor makes a face, “What?”

Niles tosses the rolled socks—one black and one white—into his open suitcase, “Either she knows and is waiting to use your secrecy against you or she truly doesn’t know and will guilt you until the end of time for not telling her.”

Connor considers his brother before answering, “Does she know you’re sleeping with the detective that smells like an ashtray?”

Niles flaps his hands as if their mother may be perched outside the door, “Of course not. How do _you_ know?”

Connor peels the mismatched socks apart, deciding packing is infinitely faster when Niles isn’t around, “Hank used to work on the force, remember?”

Niles groans and flops onto half of the unfolded socks on Connor’s bed, “Are our lives ever going to diverge?”

Connor drops a folded towel onto his brother’s face, “Haven’t seen any evidence to suggest it yet. Maybe you should have your detective look into it and see if it’s a massive conspiracy of mother’s to keep us in one place.”

Niles raises his middle finger half-heartedly but mutters into the towel, “You know, I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“So, Hank,” Niles resumes the conversation while picking pilled cotton from a lone sock without a mate, “Is it serious?”

Connor gives Niles an incredulous look, “We’ve been dating for years. I practically live with him now that I’m fulltime for the semester. I’d say it’s serious.”

Niles gives Connor a look that always makes his skin crawl. Like he’s a fascinating specimen, “I’m not one of your lab experiments, don’t look at me like that.”

Niles shakes his head, “Sorry, it’s just…I know you, Connor. You tend to assume a lot of things with remarkably little evidence. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“What about your detective? Is it serious?” Connor throws the question back at Niles, hoping to unbalance him.

“He wants to meet mother. He says he’s going to make her a lasagna.” Connor would splutter if his mouth wasn’t so dry.

“Good luck with that,” Connor mutters and Niles shrugs.

“At least we’ve _talked_ about the future. I never hear you mention anything beyond the next month. Like I said, I worry about you. I don’t know this man other than he was your professor with a seriously questionable dating timeline.”

Connor doesn’t answer the unasked question and Niles doesn’t push, “Hank values our privacy; that’s all.”

Niles rolls a shirt into a tube before tucking it inside the suitcase, “If you say so, Connor.”

***

It is a catastrophically stupid idea, and Anderson knows it. He does not like other people, he does not like traveling, and he most definitely does not like being half-clothed around strangers.

But he loves Connor. So here he is, on a beach, looking like a bleached grumpy crustacean while Connor prances around in a—

“What on earth are you wearing?” Anderson looks down at his loud Hawaiian shirt he’d begrudgingly left half unbuttoned at Connor’s insisting. He’d thrown a pleading brown gaze in Anderson’s direction and now his silvery chest hair was on display.

He is a vision of modesty next to Connor’s flaming red speedo. He turns once for Anderson outside their room and Anderson has to resist the urge to bodily shove him back inside before someone can see him.

“Have you lost your mind?” It comes out more of a hiss than he intended and he winces internally when Connor visibly deflates. Running a hand down his face, he grumbles something indistinct and thumbs at Connor’s cheek.

Their first wave sighting completely restores Connor’s good cheer. Flinging his ridiculous floppy straw hat onto their beach blanket, he charges the shoreline. Anderson is treated to a very interesting visual and is deeply glad it’s the offseason with few beachgoers.

Strolling at a more leisurely pace, Connor is practically vibrating with excitement when he reaches him, “I’ve never been to the ocean.”

He says it quietly and Anderson has to quell a fresh surge of panic. A vacation was difficult enough; adding an additional layer, making it more special, it was—

“Thank you,” Connor whispers, breathless.

Some of the tightness eases from Anderson’s chest. He’d donated his leave to Connor specifically for this. Still, vacations were a big step. He’s being ridiculous, he knows it. He and Connor cohabitate. He tells him he loves him and he means it. Even so, milestones disturb him.

Connor taking a wave to the face pushes the restlessness from Anderson’s mind for a moment and he laughs deeply. Connor pouts and another wave introduces itself to his nostrils. Spluttering, he mutters a sardonic, “My hero,” when Anderson drags him to safety by the armpits.

“Don’t turn your back on the ocean,” he offers the advice several waves too late and Connor gives him a dirty look.

“I think I’ll read instead,” he tries to walk away with dignity, but half a butt cheek hanging out of his swimsuit diminishes the effect. Anderson decides speedos aren’t so heinous after all.

He makes the mistake of falling asleep. In addition to knowing nothing of waves’ etiquette, Connor is wholly unfamiliar with the concept of reapplying sunblock. Their umbrella protected his upper half fairly well, but his bottom was—

“Utterly roasted,” Anderson comments, prodding a thick finger at the angry lobster red of Connor’s left buttock.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Connor snipes. Anderson’s hackles raise at the tone; it’s dangerously close to the verge of rudeness. When Connor shudders under his touch, Anderson lets the comment go. Connor’s in obvious pain and Anderson is more on edge than usual.

Draping damp, cool washcloths across Connor’s bottom, Anderson places a call to room service. A few quiet minutes pass before there’s a knock at the door. Blocking the entrance with his intimidating height, Anderson accepts the aloe with a tight, “Thanks.”

When he turns back to the bed, Connor’s peeping over his shoulder at him, “What do you have there, Dr. Anderson?” He can’t help but smile. The cheeky brat.

“Aloe,” he says simply, depressing the pump several times into his oversized palm.

“It will be cold,” he says in warning, but Connor still sucks in a shocked breath at the contact. Anderson would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it a little. Connor relaxes after the initial chill wears off and some of the tension eases from his spine.

Anderson re-ups on the aloe, working it into the skin until it can’t absorb any more. He rubs the excess into the pink tinge along the demarcation line of sunburn and pale flesh.

“That feels nice,” Connor mumbles into the bedding with half-closed eyes. Anderson knows that face. If he keeps it up, Connor will be asleep in minutes. He lets his fingers trail along ribs and over vertebra long after Connor’s breathing slows.

He thumbs at Connor’s open mouth, unable to contain a smirk at his slight snoring. Connor swore up and down he didn’t. Anderson had never disabused him of the belief.

He feels the ropes of doubt caging his heart tighten the longer he looks at Connor’s face. He’s handsome in a way Anderson will never be; kinder too. He winds up alone on the balcony of their top floor suite. Looking out at the oceanfront view, loneliness gnaws at the edges of his thoughts.

He’s burned through a cigar by the time Connor wakes and shuffles out to join him. Some of his dour mood leaks away when he sees Connor’s pale shoulder sloping out of the neck of a too-big sweatshirt. It’s fleece-lined and gentle on his skin.

“Found something of mine, did you?” It was a habit of Connor’s that made Anderson wonder why Connor bothered packing any of his own clothes at all.

Connor looks at his half-concealed hands as if he only just realized the shirt doesn’t fit, “So I have.”

Anderson checks his watch, then reaches for his book on the side table, “There’s an hour until dinner. How’s the burn?”

Connor twists to look at his rear with a grimace, “I’m not sure if I’ll be making it to the beach anytime soon.”

Anderson can hear the disappointment in his tone, and he glances up over his reading glasses, “I’m sure there will be time.” Connor makes a noncommittal sound, but it’s clear he doesn’t agree.

Patting at his pockets, Anderson freezes for a moment when he finds them empty. Connor snorts, “They’re still on your face, _sir_.” He boops the tip of Anderson’s nose and earns a growl for his efforts.

“I wouldn’t be so bold if I had a scorched ass and a vindictive lover,” Anderson rumbles, but his mouth twitches, spoiling the effect.

Connor hinges down to kiss him on the mouth, “I’ll take my chances.”

“Brat,” Anderson mutters fondly before giving up on the book. Between the impending dinner and Connor, he’s not going to be able to settle down enough to actually read.

He’s unfamiliar with wining and dining Connor like this and he’s distinctly uncomfortable when they walk into the fancy restaurant. The mood lighting is that mysterious level of dimness that seems to compliment everyone, but Anderson dislikes having to squint.

The food is more than adequate. It’s the first time in years that someone cooked his steak to a perfect medium and the mushroom sauce is divine. Still, he finds it hard to swallow anytime he meets Connor’s gaze from across the table.

In the dark lighting, his eyes look almost black. He smiles easily, happily. Anderson’s heart tightens and he has to look away. His eyes land on Connor’s hands, twirling buttery, herbed pasta onto a fork. Plump lips close over the tines and Anderson decides this isn’t much better.

Noticing Connor’s arched eyebrow in his peripheral, Anderson clears his throat, “How’s the scampi?”

He recovers from there. The evening becomes easier, less intimidating. He palms his reading glasses from the table, slipping them into his pocket. His fingers brush against a familiar band. It’s white gold and finger warmed. He hasn’t been able to stop touching it since he bought it.

Anderson remembers the moment vividly. Nearly half a year had passed, but the afternoon remains branded in his mind. It had been a typical lab day—too much to do and not enough time to get it all done.

Connor was bobbing between two groups of students, trying to correct a finicky piece of technology. They’d long since acclimated to Connor calling him Hank at work and at home, but during periods of high stress, Connor had a tendency to slip into the familiar.

“Sir, I need you to come look at this.”

He’d called it from across the room. Anderson could play it off as if it was no big deal if it weren’t for the deer in headlights look plastered across Connor’s face. The students had murmured with intense interest.

It was common knowledge they were a couple by now, but they hadn’t divulged much else. Anderson was intensely private and had gone so far as to cancel classes one morning when Connor’s wrists still bore restraint marks from the night before.

“It’s _fine_, Hank,” Connor had argued, insisting he could wear long sleeves. Anderson was more upset that he had the marks at all. He took pains to ensure Connor’s comfort before taking him apart. He found the culprit in a fraying edge of a wrist cuff and promptly ordered a replacement.

“You weren’t hurting me,” Connor insists later, realizing what’s bothering his lover. “I’d tell you if I was uncomfortable.”

It’s a truth Anderson can believe with ease. That wasn’t always the case with Connor, but he could take him at his word now. It didn’t stop him from leaving a blazingly negative review on the company’s website, though.

Seeing Connor frozen in place, he knew immediately that Connor wasn’t embarrassed by the slip-up; he’s worried that Anderson will be upset by it.

“Back to work,” he waved his hands gruffly at the students and they jump at the command. Nosy as they may be, they don’t want to risk an unpleasant conversation with Anderson.

He could feel Connor’s eyes on him for the rest of the day and he was unsurprised when Connor all but tackled him when they get home.

He always enjoyed an affectionate Connor, but he extricated himself from Connor’s embrace gently, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Connor pressed him, worrying about the inevitable gossip and their privacy. Anderson had shushed him with a kiss, surprising himself more than Connor.

There was a time when he would have been infuriated by such a mistake. He didn’t air his relationships to the public. In fact, before Connor, no one knew he had lovers at all.

He supposed that was the difference. Connor had tipped the balance and Anderson wanted to make it very clear they were together. He wasn’t keen on sharing and he deeply disliked people giving Connor they eye.

He knew it was unavoidable to an extent. Even as their relationship became public knowledge, people were still going to look. Connor was charming, charismatic, and attractive. It would be next to impossible to stop the looks and the unwitting advances.

Sometimes when they went out, men and women alike would approach Connor. It wasn’t clear to them that Connor was out with Anderson. Connor was always quick to point this fact out, but it irked Anderson fiercely that they couldn’t tell Connor was taken—that Connor was _his_.

“Marry him,” a voice at the back of his mind had all but smacked him upside the head.

He bought the ring the next day and carried it with him everywhere. It was as much a promise as it was an extension of himself. The more often he touched it, the more doubt worried at his fraying control.

Connor loves him. He knows it. That doesn’t soften the disconcerting sensation he always feels when giving Connor greater access to his heart. Anderson’s never been in the position where a partner could hurt him. It’s terrifying.

Heart thudding, he lets the ring rest in the bottom of his pocket and focuses on chewing his food. Now isn’t the time.

They walk along the beach, hand in hand. Anderson’s fingers won’t relinquish Connor’s to fetch the ring. It can wait a little longer.

Three days go by in a haze of aloe Vera, reading under beach umbrellas, and nightly walks barefoot in the sand. The ring consumes his attention to the point of distraction.

“Are you upset with me?” Connor finally asks when he has to call Anderson’s name three times to get his attention.

Anderson sighs and Connor takes it as confirmation. His shoulders droop and he slips out to the balcony with a quiet, “I’ll leave you alone then.”

“Always in my own damn head,” he admonishes himself before following Connor out the door.

“Connor, I’m not upse—”

“Then why have you been an absolute bastard since we got here?” He’s unprepared for Connor’s rage to slam into him full force. He’d ask Connor to let him explain, but he can’t fit in a word between the sharp edge of Connor’s anger.

“If you’re so uncomfortable being out with me, why did you suggest this at all?” Anderson stares at him at a loss for words. Connor turns his back to him, looking out at the foaming waves beating against an inflexible shore in a fruitless struggle to remain as one.

“I want to go home,” he says quietly and the defeat in his voice sends a fresh stab of guilt through Anderson’s stomach. He doesn’t know about Connor’s conversation with his brother or how much it wormed into his head. Anderson’s behavior has only reinforced it.

“Connor, I—” Connor shrugs from beneath his touch.

“It’s fine, Hank. I know you don’t like…dates and—” Connor cuts himself off, gesturing vaguely at the space between them.

“I like dates with you,” he tries to explain, “I don’t like the other people.”

Connor lets out a bitter laugh, “You don’t like to be seen with me. You never have.”

“Enough,” Anderson says quietly to himself, but Connor hears it all the same and assumes it’s directed at him.

He whirls on Anderson, tightly held hurts rising to the surface. His face goes numb with panic when he sees Anderson sink to the ground.

Kneeling down in front of him, he tries to peer past the curtain of hair shielding Anderson’s face, “Hank! Oh, Christ. Hank, what’s wrong? Are you—”

“I’m fine, Connor,” his voice is steadier than he feels, but he’s out of time.

“I’m not good at this,” he begins before exhaling hot fear.

“It’s fine, Hank. Really, I—” Anderson raises a hand, pressing it over Connor’s mouth.

“Don’t interrupt me. I can only say this once.” He drops his hand when Connor nods and sees confusion mix with fear in Connor’s warm brown eyes. He hates him clumsy handling and that he’s somehow managed to hurt Connor when he only meant to keep him close.

“I like dates with _you_. I like spending time with _you_. I don’t like other people looking at you and making assumptions. I don’t like that they think they can have what’s mine.” Connor’s mouth opens to argue and Anderson tips it closed again with the gentle pressure of his fingers under Connor’s chin.

“There was only one thing I could think of,” he reaches up to cup Connor’s flushed right cheek.

Connor’s hand rises to rest over Anderson’s, “Hank?”

He knows he’s rambling. This isn’t at all how he envisioned this, but he’s no prince charming and Connor was never going to get a romantic proposal out of him.

“I thought, ‘I should marry him’,” Anderson holds Connor’s gaze and waits for it to sink in, to read his reaction.

Connor blinks several times and his hands fall limp to his sides, dumbstruck.

“I’d like it very much, if you’re willing,” reaching into his pocket, he uncurls his considerable fist. The object of his immense distraction sits in his palm. He stares at Connor. Connor stares at the ring.

Cold fear needles at his temples, but he waits. If Connor says no, he will shatter. Still, he waits.

Brown eyes rise to meet blue as if coming out of a trance. His fingers shake as they reach out to hover over the ring.

“Is this—are you?” Connor stands abruptly before dropping back down just as suddenly.

“Hank Anderson, you are an idiot and I love you.” Then Connor’s mouth is on his, his fingers closing around the ring.

He knows Connor said yes at some point between kissing him and putting on the simple metal band. He also knows he called him a name.

“You called me an idiot,” Anderson murmurs against his jaw, pressing him carefully into the mattress with his weight.

“Because you are,” Connor tries for defiant, but gasps when Anderson nips just below his ear. Slender fingers grip his face and Anderson rises to meet Connor’s gaze, “Did you really think I would say anything other than yes?”

In retrospect, Anderson should have known it would be fine. Of course, Connor would say yes. Still, exposing his emotions has never been easy and Connor has terrifying access to them.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says gruffly and Connor’s fingers tangle in his hair. “But you should know the only reason I’m not bending you in half right now is because of your burn.”

Connor rocks his hips up into Anderson’s, “I’m not _that_ burned.” Anderson presses against him, shifting Connor against the sheets; he winces, “Maybe a little burned.”

“Only on your backside,” Anderson purrs and Connor laughs when Anderson rolls them to their sides.

He rolls his eyes, “Hank, you can’t be serious.”

Anderson grips Connor by the chin, wearing a fiendish smile, “I’m always serious, sweetheart. On your stomach.”

Connor’s eyes snap to meet Anderson’s gaze, “Yes, sir.”

He’s slightly disappointed when Anderson makes a point of reapplying aloe. He hushes Connor’s complaints with a bite to his shoulder that’s more beard than teeth, “In due time.”

Connor notes the bottle of slick next to the aloe and tries to reign in his impatience.

He shrieks out a laugh when Anderson yanks him to the end of the bed by his ankles, “Finish undressing.” Tugging his undershirt over his head, he tosses it onto a nearby chair. Anderson scowls at the little pile of Connor clothes next to his neatly folded jacket draped over the arm.

He arches his eyebrows when Connor pushes him into a sit on the bed, straddling his lap, “We’ll clean up later.”

“We?” Anderson asks, tone dry.

Connor rolls his eyes, “_I’ll_ clean it up lat—”

Anderson’s mouth is on him before he can finish his sentence. By the time he pulls away, Connor is breathless and his lips are plump and flushed, “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

Connor knows the tone, knows Anderson is waiting for him to take the bait. He doesn’t disappoint, “Or else what?”

Anderson’s answering smile makes heat pool in his gut, “Or else you’d owe me an apology.”

“That’s the best you’ve got?” Connor shoots back with a toothy grin before pointedly rolling his gaze to the ceiling and back. Anderson’s hand wrapping around his exposed length takes him by surprise and he lurches forward with a whispered, “Fuck.” He hadn’t noticed him reach for the lube.

“Such a filthy mouth,” Anderson growls against his ear. It isn’t long before Connor’s breath begins to hitch and he’s bucking into Anderson’s grip.

“Haan—sir!” Anderson’s grip slackens at the slip up but redoubles in effort at the title.

“Are you close, Connor?” Anderson knows he is. He knows every inch of Connor’s body and how to bring it to the brink of unraveling in a matter of minutes. It’s deeply satisfying to see—even more so to leave him simmering on its edge.

Connor nods, wrapping his arms around Anderson’s neck. He’s trying to gain leverage to increase the friction; Anderson is having none of it. His fingers thread into Connor’s hair, pulling him gently back. Connors pupils threaten to consume his irises when he meets Anderson’s gaze.

“Your apology, remember?” Connor groans and his head drops back, pressing into Anderson’s palm. Running his thumb along Connor’s lower lip to underscore his meaning, he rumbles, “Show me you’re sorry.”

Connor’s head snaps up, familiar with this request. He knows what Anderson’s after and he puddles onto the floor between Anderson’s knees. Anderson’s grip never leaves his hair and Connor knows it won’t be long before he’s thrusting into his face.

The first time he gags, Anderson eases off him only for Connor to dive back down, “Eager for it, are you?” Connor’s only answer is to swallow as much of Anderson as he can before coming back up for air.

His right hand works the remaining length of shaft his mouth can’t reach while the left rests on the soft swell of Anderson’s stomach. Anderson eyes it, realizing what Connor’s doing.

Connor knows not to touch himself—that Anderson wants to be the one to bring him to completion—but the sight of the band on his finger is a reminder. It’s a gesture Anderson wasn’t prepared for and he squeezes Connor’s hand in answer, slowing his bucking hips to a pace approaching tender.

“So fucking good for me,” Anderson’s hand loosens in his hair, moving to stroke along Connor’s flushed jaw. Connor hums an indecipherable response, but he sounds pleased. His mouth sinks down Anderson’s shaft, impossibly warm, and his tongue laves along the underside as he rises.

He pops off the end with a filthy wet sound and meets Anderson’s gaze as he continues working his length with a tightly closed hand. His lips shine from spit and he doesn’t bother to wipe at his chin. Anderson’s gaze drifts from lust-blown eyes to dick-plumped lips.

Anderson pulls and Connor’s half onto the bed before he realizes his intention. Settling onto his side so that he’s face to face with his fiancé, he drapes a leg loosely over Anderson’s hip. Still pumping up and down Anderson’s girthy length, his own erection bobs in wait, weeping at the tip from neglect.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against Anderson’s ear before nibbling the lobe. Although more lighthearted than a true scene, he knows Anderson’s rules. He won’t get off until he toes that line. Anderson huffs out a laugh at Connor’s tone; it’s more sultry than apologetic, but it’ll do.

Easing Connor’s grip, he takes them both in his considerable hand, “Apology accepted.”

He shivers at the press of Anderson’s shaft against his own and swears freely when he begins to work their lengths in tandem, “Fuck, Hank—sir! Fucking…fuck!”

It’s not eloquent, but Anderson loves when Connor’s control first starts to slip. He likes the sound of his name in Connor’s mouth when he’s desperately close to coming.

Connor wraps an arm around Anderson’s neck, pulling himself close enough for a kiss. It’s wet and messy as Connor writhes in Anderson’s grip. He whispers his name against his lips like a secret wish just between them.

Anderson’s grip shifts and Connor whimpers at the change. Brutal, demanding strokes tip him over the edge and he whines into Anderson’s shoulder when his hand doesn’t stop. Connor’s dick pulses the last weak drops of release when Anderson’s own orgasm hits him, mixing messily over his fist.

Reaching into the bedside drawer, he snags at a frilly hotel washcloth. By the time they’re both cleaned up, Connor’s burrowed under the blankets. Slipping in beside him, he reaches for Connor’s banded hand.

He presses a kiss into the palm just beneath the ring, “Mine.”

Connor gives him a sleepy affirmation and Anderson adds, “For the rest of my life.” Connor blinks open tired eyes to meet Anderson’s gaze.

“Husband,” Connor tries out the word and his face splits around a smile.

His joy is infectious and Anderson beams as he answers, “Soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake)


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